Big D
by hogwarts1998
Summary: After a year in hiding with wizards, Dudley Dursley isn't the same thug he was when he used to beat up kids on the playground. He's a world champion boxer now, and his life has its own rhythm. But the beautiful French girl at the club throws that rhythm off. Then Harry Potter reappears in his life, and Dudley has to face the world that he had tried so hard to forget.
1. Chapter 1: The After-Party

Chapter One: The After-Party

Of all the distractions available at that moment, only one was really causing Dudley a problem. For whatever reason, his left calf was tightening up, steadily becoming a worse and worse pain that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. He didn't want to favor his right leg too obviously, but he had to take pressure off of his left leg.

As he deliberated, he ducked his head, feeling the air swoosh over his head as he did. Then he saw it, a beautiful, perfect opportunity. It was an incredibly wide opening, unbelievably so, and it was easy to reach from his pain-free right leg. His right foot slid forward, his body twisted slightly, and his left arm shot forward, followed in rapid succession by his right, to land with resounding smacks on their target, exactly where Dudley wanted them. They were strong jabs, too, belying the weakness that was now creeping up out of his calf and into his exhausted thigh.

Fortunately, his strikes had landed true, and the enormous Latvian that had given Dudley eleven rounds of trouble swayed and then fell, winded past his ability to withstand another blow.

Dudley skipped backwards, away from the temptation to spit at his defeated opponent. He hadn't taken a beating like this in a while, and he certainly hadn't enjoyed it. He was enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the Latvian—whose name he'd made it a point not to learn—sprawled at his feet.

The count finished, and a roar rose up from the crowd, chanting his name: "Big D! Big D!" Dudley let loose a bellow from deep within his lungs. He thumped his bruised chest with his victorious gloves. And then he did spit, turning his mouth-guard into a projectile, a practiced feat, towards the unhappy Latvian camp.

Then he was swarmed by his own supporters, each one hoping to touch the great conqueror. Hands reached for him, voices were in his ear, but Dudley barely felt any of it, raised on a cloud of his own glory. Dudley was king in a kingdom all his own.

* * *

"Nice hit, that last one, eh Big D?" Piers said, exultant. He was fiddling with his tie clip, looking absurdly out of place in the teeming, sweaty locker room. "Just bam, bam, you know, and you got him, that was, you know, that was quite something."

"Bam, bam," Dudley muttered, too quietly for Piers to hear. Charlie, his ever-patient physical therapist, who was working on that still tight calf, heard Dudley's mockery and shook his head, a smile on his face.

"How's he looking, Charlie?" Piers asked, noticing the physio's amusement.

"He's been better," Charlie responded. "His muscles don't usually tighten up like this. But he also doesn't usually take on opponents with fifteen centimeters more reach than him or some thirty pounds bigger than him. So we can skip worrying for tonight and enjoy the win."

"Excellent!" Gordon said, from his position in a chair behind Dudley. "Mate, we've got an after party planned like you'd never _believe_. You know that new club down by the pier, the one with the Swedish DJ, yeah?" Dudley nodded wearily, but Gordon probably didn't see it. "VIP, mate. We've got the whole VIP section booked, just for us, yeah. Nobody comes in that we don't want. Open bar, great seating, and, Big D, the _girls_ , yeah, they're fantastic. Actually, Ozols had a couple of good looking ladies with him, I wonder if they'd like to ditch the loser and come party with the _undisputed_ _world champion, Big D_!" These last words were screamed out to an answering cheer from the crowd packed into the locker room.

"Yeah, great, sounds good," Dudley sighed, too tired to cheer. Charlie glanced up at his face for a moment before resuming his work on the taut calf muscles. "Hey, Charlie, you seen my dad tonight at all?"

"I saw him ringside at one point, but I don't know where he is now. Want me to send someone to find him?" Charlie's words were spoken with a funny emphasis.

Dudley grinned. "I think Gordon should be able to find him, don't you think?"

Charlie stood up, his work with Dudley's calf apparently done. He sighed and stretched his arms up over his head before giving Gordon a pointed look and saying, " _Yeah_."

As Charlie moved away to send Gordon on his errand, Piers sidled up to Dudley and took a seat on the table beside him. "Good showing tonight, Dud, really. And, you know, the purse is quite nice, good haul. I know you were eyeing the new Aston Martin, want me to purchase it for you?"

"I dunno, Piers, you're the money man. I'm not such a car guy, find something better to celebrate with, ok?"

"New watch?"

"I dunno, Piers, all right? Drop it for now. Put the money someplace safe. I'll use it when I need it. I'm not thinking so clearly right now." Dudley slid off the table, trying to land gently on his sore left leg. "I'm going to shower. You go ahead to Gordon's party. I'll ask my dad to give me a lift."

"Come on, Dud, don't bug your dad. We got you a limousine, you know, you've got to arrive in style! You're a champion!"

"Whatever. I'll see you there."

Piers clapped a hand down on Dudley's shoulder before sliding away to partake in some other celebratory group. Dudley grabbed a fluffy white towel from the stack provided outside the shower and went to wash away eleven and a half rounds of sweat.

* * *

Vernon Dursley, it turned out, had been outside the locker room chatting it up with reporters since the match had ended. "Anyone who put money on Ozols feels stupid now, I'll say!" he had repeated loudly and frequently, chuckling to himself as he did. "Nothing beats a good English set of fists in the ring, especially not when they're our Dudley's, isn't that right!"

He bustled into the locker room shortly after Dudley had pulled his trousers back on to give his son a brief, awkward embrace that neither of them really enjoyed. "Excellent footwork, Dudders, good form. _Latvian_ , eh, he didn't stand a chance! For England and St. George, Dudley, that's how we do it!"

Dudley smiled at his father. "And for money, Dad. Piers said it was a good purse."

"It ruddy well should be! _Champion_ , Dudders, you're the _champion_! Piers isn't talking about spending the money on some technology stocks, is he? You need a nice, sure investment, a nest egg to keep you going after you've retired. I'll have to speak to him about it. Pharmaceuticals, Dudders, that's where the money is."

Dudley nodded along with his father, pretending he cared about how his money was invested. As long as his credit card was never declined, that was all that mattered to him. His father and Piers (who actually had studied economics in university and had some idea what he was doing) could argue over the right way to invest Dudley's money to their hearts' content; Dudley had no say.

"Mum didn't come tonight, did she?" Dudley dropped the question casually—too casually, probably, but his father wasn't one to notice.

"What's that? No, no, she's at the hotel. I called her, though, right after your knockout. Juris Ozols, world champion, ha! It's Dudley Dursley now!"

Dudley smiled slightly, as he buttoned the white shirt that someone who knew more about post-victory wardrobes had left him. "Think I should stop by the hotel to say good night?" he asked. He hesitated over the top three buttons and then left them open, the chunky gold chain he'd been wearing since winning his first regional tournament in year eleven prominently displayed.

"Nonsense, nonsense, Dudley! Your mother's gone to sleep already, I'm sure. Go out and celebrate! You're the champion, Dudders, the champion!"

This time Dudley didn't smile, but he nodded his head, now fastening a flashy gold watch around his wrist. "Gordon rented out a club or something," he said as conversation with his father stuttered. "Some Swedish DJ's there."

Vernon stared blankly back at Dudley. For a moment, Dudley wondered whether Vernon was more confused by the idea of a Swede or the idea of a DJ. It was a brief moment only, however, before Dudley's thoughts turned anxiously back to his mother. Proud as she was, he knew she didn't like to watch his fights, hating to see him pummeled by bigger or more experienced opponents. She would have noticed his bad leg, he was sure, and she'd be worrying. He considered skipping the DJ and the noise and the crowds and the inevitable hangover the following morning. It had been a long time since he'd really enjoyed all that anyway…

"So, then, what time is this party of yours, eh?" Vernon inquired into the awkward silence.

Dudley shrugged. "Piers said there's a car waiting to take me over, so I guess anytime. You going to come?" He couldn't picture his straitlaced father dancing in a club, but the words were perfunctory, and they both knew it.

"No, no, I'm not young enough for that anymore! Besides, a _Swedish_ DJ? Celebrating an English victory? I think you should object, Dudley," Vernon said, confirming Dudley's assumption. "Doesn't matter though, it's all planned out now, I suppose; you'll just have to say something next time. Well, I won't keep you. I'll tell your mother you say goodnight."

"Yeah, thanks," Dudley muttered. He scanned the locker room quickly to see if he had left anything behind, but he spotted nothing of import. With a jerky nod of his head to Vernon, he hastened out of the room towards the mad revelry that waited beyond.

The limousine was waiting right outside the back doors. Piers and Gordon were already inside, both availing themselves of the champagne provided. Piers was slurping his out of a flute, while Gordon had a bottle in each hand and was alternating swigs from each. Upon seeing Dudley, Piers raised his glass in a salute, sloshing some out onto his trousers, eliciting a stream of muttered curses from him, while Gordon let out a belch and a hoarse cheer.

Dudley settled into the sumptuous leather of the seats and closed his eyes, ignoring the bottle of champagne that Gordon wedged between his knees. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, really. If he was going to get wasted, there were faster ways to do it. Besides, champagne was for celebrating, and, despite his victory, Dudley didn't feel much like a celebration. It irked him that he felt that way, but he couldn't explain it.

"Come on, Dud, drink up, yeah?" Gordon prompted him, nudging the bottle. "Pre-gaming starts now, Big D."

"Sorry it's not Kristal," Piers apologized, making a face as he took another sip from his glass. "I thought that if we were paying this much for a limo we'd get the good stuff, but I guess if you want quality you have to provide it yourself."

"I don't care," Dudley mumbled. His lips were a little bit swollen from a punch that had landed on his face, and he was feeling the pain set in as the adrenaline wore off. "Haven't got any ibuprofen, have you Gordon?"

Gordon laughed. "That's all you want, Big D? Wait, just wait, I'll get you something better in the club, yeah."

"I just want ibuprofen," Dudley said.

"Did Charlie give you anything?" Piers asked.

"No, I didn't see him before I left."

Gordon laughed again. "I saw him," he said with another belch. "And he gave me something for you, Big D, is that what you're looking for?"

"Is it ibuprofen?"

"Ha!"

"Then I don't want it, Gordon, I told you. And keep your hands off my prescriptions."

"Look, Big D, if you don't want them, yeah, I know plenty of lads who do."

Without any warning, Dudley surged forward, sinking his formidable fist into Gordon's stomach. Gordon screamed and dropped his remaining champagne onto the carpeted floor of the limousine, clutching at his stomach. Dudley sank back onto his seat, folding his arms over his chest. "I've told you before Gordon, I don't want my name getting mixed up in all that, all right? I don't want anything to do with it. And if you're going to have anything to do with it, then you can pack up and leave," Dudley snapped.

"Easy, easy, Big D," Piers soothed. "Gordon's just being practical. There's money to be made in this sort of thing, right? We can't all be boxing superstars, Big D. Some of us have to find other ways of making money."

"I don't care, about that. But I don't want to lose my belts, and this is the fastest way to do that, so keep me out of it, ok?"

Gordon sat up shortly after, swearing profusely, but he said nothing further to Dudley. An unhappy mood had settled over the limousine.

When they arrived at the club, Dudley slid out of the limousine as fast as he could, slamming the door behind him in Gordon's spluttering face. Piers emerged from the other side of the limousine and rushed over to guide Dudley into the club. Dudley shrugged Piers's patronizing hand off of his arm. He stormed forward towards the discreet door with VIP written over it in shimmering LED lights. The bouncer was bigger than Dudley, but he looked intimidated by Dudley's surly expression—or perhaps he knew whom Dudley was, and that he had flattened Juris Ozols in the ring not two hours ago. Either way, he didn't give Dudley any trouble as he roughly pushed his way into the noise of the club, not bothering to check if Piers and Gordon were behind him.

It felt little like the area was for VIPs only. Dudley found himself in the midst of a thick crowd, all of whom seemed eager to congratulate him, touch him, or toast him.

"Big Dee-ee!" a slurred voice yelled. Dudley felt a shot glass pushed into his hands, and he looked to see who had given it to him. It was Malcolm, who'd been absent, probably getting drunk or high or both, since midway through the match.

"Shove off, Malcolm," Dudley growled, tossing the shot glass back at Malcolm. The surrounding crowd let out a long, scandalized, " _Ooh!_ " Dudley shouldered past the guffawing Malcolm to the sleek, backlit bar. The music, selected, Dudley supposed, by the lauded Swedish DJ, pounded through his bones and into his brain. He didn't feel the urge to dance; he just felt a headache, a growing throbbing in the center of his head, making him steadily angrier.

"Double-shot of your strongest Irish whiskey," he demanded of the black clad, metrosexual bartender.

"I saw your match on the telly," the bartender said, excitement in his voice, as he slid the brimming glass across the smooth bar counter to Dudley. "You've got a mean right hook."

Dudley downed the shot easily and then pushed the empty glass back to the bartender. "Another." He didn't have a mean right hook. He was a southpaw, and he tended to jab with his right hand. In the final flurry of punches he'd thrown at the big Latvian, not one had been a right hook.

"I guess it must be pretty painful, having a bloke that size pummeling you," the bartender said. He whipped the bottle out from under the bar and flipped it up in the air, catching it with an unnecessary flourish and using an even grander flourish to top off Dudley's glass. "I guess I'd need a strong drink after that, too." Dudley downed his second drink without another word. He pushed the empty shot glass back again with a meaningful look. "Sure you don't want something with a bit more party to it? I've got a beautiful tequila here…"

"If I want tequila, I'll tell you," Dudley snapped. The bartender looked taken aback.

"Another whiskey it is, right, sorry," the bartender replied, conciliatory now, obviously thinking about his tip.

Dudley finished the third shot and then slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out the first bill he found. He glanced at it before throwing it down in front of the bartender; it was a twenty quid. "Just a pint of stout now," he requested, feeling weary and not at all buzzed. This the bartender handed him silently, discreetly grabbing the tip as he did so.

Dudley seized the beer and moved away from the bar, seeking an empty pocket where he could stand without being shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone. He spotted such a space near the balcony that overlooked the club's main dance floor. Making his way over to it, he leaned his elbows on the railing and sipped his beer.

For a party that was supposed to be about his victory, most of his friends had left him to his own devices fairly quickly. He'd seen Malcolm dancing with a pair of girls who looked to young to be in the club, Piers was sitting on one of the leather couches at the edge of the room, his tie already loosened and empty cocktail glasses on the table in front of him as he leered at the waitress. Gordon was standing suspiciously in a corner, facing the wall, the shadows obscuring whomever he was with there. He supposed he was less approachable without his usual contingent of mindless sycophants at his elbows.

He didn't mind. Something about the victory was unsatisfying. Ozols had given him trouble, sure, but beating him hadn't given Dudley the thrill he had expected. It was as if Ozols had come into the ring ready to lose and had _let_ Dudley win. It was an odd feeling, but Dudley couldn't quite shake it off.

It wasn't true, of course. If the Latvian had planned to let Dudley win, there was no reason for the match to last eleven rounds. It hadn't been easy. But still, the feeling ate at him.

"Hi," a soft voice breathed at his elbow. Dudley turned his head to see the tall, willowy brunette in the sequined dress who was hoping to make a catch out of famous boxer Big D.

"You're not my type," Dudley told her.

"You don't even know me."

"I don't want to. If I'm interested, I'll find you. I'm not interested." Dudley turned back to brooding over the railing, not paying any attention to whether the brunette stayed or went.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. It was Piers, again, come away from his sofa, a girl on either arm. "Mate, the _girls_ here," he slurred. "Did you just send one _away_?" He laughed, too loud and too long, and the girls on his arms looked mildly uncomfortable. "Come on, Big D, you're the champion tonight! You can't spend it alone. Go on; pick one out of the crowd. Come on, D."

Dudley shook his head and took another swig. "I'm not feeling it, Piers."

"You haven't spotted the right girl yet, that's all, eh, D? Go on, go on. Search the crowd, invite some up to our section. They'll love it. You'll love it. It'll be great."

Dudley sighed and glanced down at the crowd of surging bodies below him, if only to get Piers off his back. There were scores of people below, each an ambiguous blob of sweat and hairspray. Dudley saw nothing to excite him.

As he was turning back to Piers to send him away, Dudley's attention was caught suddenly by a strange gap in a corner of the dance floor. As he watched, the people dancing around the gap all turned to stare at it as a woman walked onto the floor dragging a bemused looking man behind her. They began to dance, and the people around them continued to stare. They weren't watching the couple; they were watching the woman, and it was obvious to Dudley why. Even from his distance, she was astonishingly beautiful, with white blonde hair that fell loose to her hips, shimmering with an ethereal glow of its own while she moved with exquisite grace to the beat of the music that had lost its luster with this woman in attendance. Dudley couldn't see her face, but still he couldn't move his eyes away from her. He was enthralled by the way the air around her seemed to bend and twist as she danced, by the way the lights lit her form more brightly than anything else in the room, and by the way she danced as if she were alone on an empty dance floor, unhindered by the crowds that made the club both intolerable and enticing for everybody else.

"Found one, have you, Big D?" Piers asked, noticing Dudley's unwavering stare. "She should come up here, everybody wants to be a VIP. I'll send Malcolm down—"

"Not Malcolm," Dudley said sharply, the spell lessened but not broken. "I'll go myself, I should say hello."

"Right, right, Dud, she can't say no to a celebrity, can she?" Piers snickered.

Dudley downed the last of his beer, his eyes still watching the woman below. "I have to say hello," he said to himself. He wrenched himself away from the balcony and handed his empty glass to a bewildered Piers. "Cheers, mate," he said distractedly before pushing past in search of the stairs that descended to the club's main section.

It took a frustratingly long time to locate the stairs, and by the time he reached the bottom the dance floor had returned to normal, the woman having disappeared. Angry at something he couldn't quite pinpoint, Dudley stalked over to a quiet section of the bar, farther away from the pounding of the club's speaker system, now blaring out some electronic beat with heavy bass and little tune. He was about to hail a bartender when he spotted a flash of silvery-white hair and hastened around a curve in the bar to find the woman from the dance floor rapping impatiently on the bar's counter for a bartender's attention. At her summons, the nearest bartender literally dropped what he was doing and rushed to serve her. As Dudley approached her, he heard her place her order in a throaty, musical voice tinged with a foreign accent.

"Rum and coke, please."

Dudley stretched out his hand to wave down the bartender. "Make that two," he called out.

The woman turned to see who had copied her order, and for the first time Dudley had a clear view of her face. She was more beautiful than he had even imagined during his trek down from the VIP lounge. Her features were perfectly symmetrical, her skin flawless, her lips cherry red, her violet eyes framed by long thick lashes. He knew instinctively that she wasn't wearing any makeup and that her look could never be captured by cosmetics. The other women in the club, he knew, would give almost anything to have her effortless beauty. Like her hair, the rest of her glowed with an internal light; Dudley half expected her to unfurl a pair of wings and turn fully into the angel he perceived her to be.

"You like the bubbles?" she said in that pure, sweet voice.

It took Dudley a minute to find his tongue. "Uh, yeah, bubbles," he agreed. He winced internally, cringing at how stupid he sounded. "Rum's your poison of choice?"

She shrugged, her shoulder rising and falling in a single, fluid movement that, despite its simplicity, was magnificent to watch. " _C'est bien_ , _oui_ , it is good for dancing. It makes you…excited, _oui_ , this is correct?"

"Yeah, sure, I get that. Gives you energy, like a coffee."

" _Oui, exactement_!"

Dudley felt his face flush at her enthusiastic response to his stupid, stupid conversation—a reaction he would never have dreamt of having. He searched desperately for a new topic of conversation. Before his mind caught up with his tongue, he spluttered out, "So you're French?"

Before she had a chance to respond, the bartender returned with the two rum-and-cokes. Setting them down, the man looked expectantly at Dudley for a moment before his expression changed as recognition hit.

"You're Big D Dursley!" he exclaimed. Dudley sighed and picked up his drink. The bartender scrambled for a piece of paper, procuring a cocktail napkin instead. "I watched your fight tonight, mate, it was unbelievable, you flattened Ozols! Can I have your autograph, Big D?"

Dudley shook his head, but he said, "You'll need to give me a pen, I haven't got one."

The bartender whipped a pen out of his pocket and thrust it at Dudley, who had to set his drink back down to sign his name.

"And can you date it, mate? So people know I got your signature the night you became the champion?"

Dudley dutifully scrawled the date. "You can put both drinks on the tab upstairs," he told the bartender as he handed him back the napkin.

"Did you just buy me a drink?" the Frenchwoman asked Dudley when the bartender dashed off to display his prize to his fellows pouring drinks.

Dudley grinned. "Do you mind?"

The Frenchwoman cocked her head, studying Dudley. " _Non_ ," she said after some consideration. "We both like the bubbles. You are famous?"

The direct question caught Dudley off guard. "Yeah, I'm a boxer. I had a big match tonight, I guess that's why he recognized me."

"Ah, _oui_!" the Frenchwoman exclaimed. "Yes, yes, I saw you also in the fight. You are much taller _en personne_."

"I'm just a lot taller when I'm not standing next to that monster," Dudley corrected, referring to the lately defeated Latvian. "You saw the match on the telly then, did you?"

" _Non, non_ , I was there, yes, at the fight!"

"Really?"

" _Vraiment_! My friend, he is _tres riche_ and likes the sports, he says he likes to go, and I am bored, so I say ' _j'irai avec toi_ ,' and then he says when the fight it is over that he wants to come here. This I like much more good, _oui_ , and so, _voilà_ , we come here." She spoke quickly, seamlessly blending her French and English together as if the words she spoke were all one language. With the din of the crowd and the music to contend with, Dudley struggled to keep up. He understood clearly, however, that she said she was not alone.

"So where's this friend of yours now?" he inquired, trying to sound conversational.

The Frenchwoman waved her hand dismissively and took a sip of her drink. " _Lá, ici, je ne sais pas_. I think he dances with some girls I do not know." She took another sip and then smiled coyly at Dudley over the rim of the glass. "We are not dating, yes? He is my friend _seulement_."

Dudley grinned. "Right, I see. I'm Dudley."

" _Je m'appelle Gabrielle_."

"Gabrielle? That's a beautiful name."

" _Merci_. Dudley is not beautiful."

Dudley blinked and then laughed. "Yeah, well, it's better than Big D, I reckon." He finished his drink and set the glass on the bar counter. "Want to dance, Gabrielle?"


	2. Chapter 2: The Wedding Invitation

Chapter Two: The Wedding Invitation

Restaurants that had set menus for brunch irked Dudley, but his mother was fond of this particular spot, so he went uncomplaining. He didn't feel much like complaining anyway; he had spent the most fantastic night of his life with Gabrielle. Far from the moody post-match brooding that had consumed the early part of his evening, he was radiantly happy the following morning.

It wasn't even that she was just beautiful. She had made him laugh over and over again throughout the night, and she had never laughed at him when he said something stupid, only at his jokes, even when they were terrible. When she'd talked too fast and slipped into a rapid, complex French that Dudley couldn't follow, she'd notice and slow down; she would even translate into English if he needed—which he usually did—never begrudgingly, but always with a gentle smile. And then the conversation had been interesting, not the same dull platitudes about drugs and boxing and sex that he usually exchanged with his mates or the girls he slept with. Gabrielle had talked about France as they danced; about her parents, her sister and her English husband, and her niece while they sat and drank and cooled off from the dance floor; and about the evils of London traffic when they slid together into the back of the car to go to Dudley's hotel room. But she didn't just talk, she listened. She listened with an intensity that Dudley had never imagined when he talked about his love of coffee, or his appreciation for fast-paced action movies and his subsequent horror that she had never seen any. And when he admitted to the feeling of emptiness that he'd felt at knocking out Ozols, she had set her drink down, grabbed his face, and given him a deep, long kiss. Then they'd gone back to his hotel, and the night had gotten better and better, past the words that Dudley had left to describe the sheer delights that Gabrielle had brought into his life.

At the table in the formal, stuffy restaurant, Dudley shifted in his seat, remembering. He fidgeted with the tableware and tried to think of something else.

His fidgeting and self-distraction were short-lived, as Petunia Dursley arrived less than two minutes later. Dudley rose to give his mother a hug and a peck on the cheek. She squeezed him tightly and kissed him on each cheek.

"So sorry I'm late, Diddykins, the traffic was awful." Petunia smoothed her pastel pink skirt as she settled into her seat. A sharply dressed waiter in a tailored waistcoat and a bowtie dashed over to fill their champagne glasses and murmur pleasantries to the mother and son duo.

"I've only been here a few minutes, mum, don't worry. I had a slow trip also," Dudley said.

"Well, then," Petunia said. She paused, as the waiter topped off her glass. As he walked away, she lifted her glass to Dudley, who lifted his as well. "Congratulations on your victory, Diddykins."

"Thanks, mum," he said, and they both drank. Dudley gulped his down while his mother gently sipped hers.

"How are you feeling today?" Petunia asked, dabbing at her mouth with the corner of her heavy cloth napkin.

Words flooded Dudley's mind, each one related to Gabrielle and the time he spent with her. _Happy, satisfied, comfortable, eager, curious_ … But then the bruise on his cheekbone throbbed, and he realized that she was asking him how he felt after last night's fight.

"Yeah, pretty good. Bit stiff, and a couple of bruises, but pretty good." He felt like it was a lie. He didn't feel _pretty good_ , he felt wonderful, amazing. His thoughts drifted to long, silvery hair with a texture like silk…

"And how was the party? Mrs. Polkiss told me that Piers was pleased with the arrangements."

"Yeah, that was also pretty good. Nice place, decent music." He reflected briefly on the evening. Piers's party—Gordon's, rather—had been dull at best and irritating at worst, but it had been redeemed by Gabrielle's unexpected presence. Dudley felt a little bit ridiculous for being so head-over-heels obsessed with her, but he couldn't help himself. The time he'd spent with her had been the best he'd ever had.

"Lovely. Did Piers and Gordon and Malcolm enjoy themselves?"

"Yeah, I reckon they did." Dudley paused as a new waiter arrived with a plate of warm French pastries that he set down on the table before gliding away once more. "Did you watch any of the match last night?"

Petunia fiddled with the clasp of her pocketbook, which Dudley only then realized, as he reached for a flaky croissant, that she had kept on her lap. "What's that, Diddykins?" Petunia asked, distracted.

"I said did you watch any of the match?"

Petunia touched the clasp again. "A little. Is your leg bothering you?"

"No, it's fine now, just stiffened up towards the end of the match. Charlie worked it out."

"Lovely." Petunia took another sip of her champagne, dabbed her lips again, and returned her hands to the opening of her pocketbook.

"Mum. You can put it down, you know, nobody here is going to steal your pocketbook, okay?" Dudley urged, licking the last crumbs of pastry off of his fingers. Croissant. French. He wondered if Gabrielle liked croissants.

Petunia shook her head. "No, no, of course not." She paused. "I got a letter today, Dudley."

"Yeah?" Dudley prompted, breaking a piece off of a second croissant.

"At the hotel."

Dudley popped the croissant-half he had grabbed into his mouth. "That's cool. Why'd anyone bother sending you a letter, why not just call?"

More food arrived in the hands of discreet waiters, and Petunia was silent until they had left their bowls of bisque and topped off the champagne glasses. When the waiters were sufficiently far away, Petunia whispered, her lips barely moving, "It didn't come by post."

Already two spoonfuls into the unpleasantly lukewarm bisque Dudley paused, his spoon full and level with his chin. "So how'd it come?" he asked slowly, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Petunia said nothing, instead reaching for another sip of her champagne, her bisque untouched. Dudley watched her hand, unwilling to look her in the face; her hand was trembling. As she sipped, her eyes darted around the nearly empty restaurant. It wasn't a popular place for a weekday brunch, tending to be busier for tea, and then generally on weekends. Besides, they were there on the late side for brunch, rapidly approaching noon, so anyone else who had been there earlier had long since gone. There were only three other groups in the expansive restaurant now: a couple more engrossed in each other's saliva than the food they were being served; an aged looking gentlemen with large hearing aids protruding from his ears; and four businessmen out for an early lunch, their table littered with empty glasses, their laughter excessively raucous. All were seated at tables far enough away from the Dursleys that prevented any eavesdropping, but still Petunia looked frightened. She inhaled deeply, her face white, and released a little gasp, looking expectantly at Dudley as she did so.

Dudley frowned and shook his head. "Mum, speak up, I can't hear you." Her jaw locked and her lips barely moving, Petunia again made an indecipherable noise. "Mum! Just say it!"

Petunia leaned across the table, glanced around the restaurant again, and looked Dudley in the eyes. " _Owl_ ," she hissed. As soon as the word passed her lips, she leaned back in her seat and snatched up her champagne glass again, steadying herself with another sip.

Dudley's stomach dropped. _Owl_. He knew exactly the last time his mother had received a letter from one of those. He tasted bile in his mouth, remembering a hot summer's night when he was fifteen that had suddenly turned dark, cold, and more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. He could see still clearly imprinted against his mind's eye the brilliant silver deer or horse or whatever it had been that had returned warmth to the night air, and he could hear the screech of the owl that had come flying into their home to drop a letter on the table, a letter that had screamed a message out into the silence of his mother's sparkling kitchen, tainting their home with a cryptic one-line missive to Petunia that had given her a thorough shock. He hadn't seen an owl since then without thinking of that night; he never saw an owl that didn't send a shiver up his spine.

"Did it…did it _yell_ at you?" Dudley asked, his voice barely louder than his breath.

"It hooted," Petunia responded, confused. Her voice, too, was difficult to hear. Dudley shook his head.

"No, mum, the letter. Did the letter scream again?"

"What? No, no, it wasn't like that."

Dudley sighed, relaxing slightly. He didn't know why it made any difference what the letter said or did, considering how it was delivered, but he was still glad to know it wasn't another one of those. "So who was it from, then? From… _him_?"

Petunia nodded, one quick, sharp jerk of her head. She opened her pocketbook at last, slipping her hand inside. She paused, casting another furtive glance around the restaurant. Seeing that they were sufficiently alone, she pulled out a light-colored piece of heavy looking paper and slid it across the table to her son. Dudley picked it up and looked at the text on the reverse side. In bottle green ink—a color Dudley found, to his surprise, was strikingly familiar, if out of place—and letters written in elegant, though not ornate, cursive, was written:

 _You are cordially invited to the marriage of_

 ** _Harry_** _  
and  
_ ** _Ginny_** _  
_

Beneath the names were the dates and location, which Dudley barely noticed. He felt a sort of dull shock at reading the names. Marriage? They were too young to get married. Dudley was only a month older than him, and he certainly wasn't getting married anytime soon. For goodness's sake, they were only twenty-one! Dudley didn't recognize the bride's name, nor did he expect to, but he doubted she could be much older.

He passed the invitation back to his mother. "Do you think his kind always get married this young?" he whispered.

"My—" Petunia began, but then she paused and pursed her lips. She shook her head and said nothing else until she had eaten all of her bisque. Taking her cue, Dudley finished his as well. They were quiet while the waiters removed the bowls and set down plates with small circles of tuna tartar in front of them.

"Was that it, then?" Dudley asked, putting a fork of the tuna in his mouth. "He's just out of the blue gone and invited you to his wedding without another word?"

Here Petunia blushed. "No," she said.

Dudley took a swig of champagne. "No what?" he prompted.

"It wasn't out of the blue."

Dudley nearly choked on his drink. "You've been in contact with him?" he demanded past a cough. "All this time?"

Petunia shook her head. Then, closing her eyes, she nodded then shook her head again. "We meet," she said finally. "Once a year. Just for coffee or tea or lunch, something like that. On the thirty-first of October."

Dudley rocked back in his chair, stunned. He set his fork down on the table, a host of questions swarming through his mind. Eventually, only one managed to make its way down to his lips. "Every year?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since we came back."

Dudley ran his fingers through his hair. "So that's what, four times? You've met him four times since then?"

"Yes."

"Does Dad know?"

Petunia _tsk_ -ed. "Of course not."

"Do you think he'd stop you going if he did know?"

"No. No, he's always let me make the decisions about…about all of _that_. If I said I had to, he wouldn't say no. But he would never understand," Petunia said.

Dudley snorted. " _I_ don't understand," he complained. "When we got back, you said you hoped that you'd never have anything to do with any of that again, no part of that world." Petunia anxiously shushed him, but he ignored her. "You were the first to swear it off, faster than Dad, I reckon. And now all along you've kept a foot inside that world? You've stayed in touch with him? I don't get it, mum. I don't."

"It was complicated, Diddykins."

"Don't 'Diddykins' me, mum. What the hell is complicated? We all agreed, we all said, after the way we had to live because of him, because of them, because of _all_ of it, we said we were done, that it was over. What the hell were you meeting him for?" Dudley felt an angry sensation rising within himself. It was more than just anger, though; it was betrayal. They had turned their backs on everything they had been through, and they'd done so together, that was the deal. He felt hurt.

"What do you want me to tell you, Dudley?" Petunia snapped. "He wrote to me and asked to see him. He promised that he would never bother me again if I said no, but he said that there were things that he thought I should know about what had happened to him while we were away. He said it was important."

"And was it? Was it actually important, so important that you couldn't say no?"

Petunia's lips were pressed together so tightly that they were white. As Dudley watched, they trembled ever so slightly. She closed her eyes as she gave Dudley her answer: "Yes."

Dudley put his face in his hands and rested his elbows on the table, past the point of caring if his mother told him off for it. His voice muffled by his palms, he swore.

"Dudley!"

He raised his face out of his hands and looked at his mother with a touch of disgust. "What? Are you going to complain about my _language_? Mum, we promised. _I_ promised, and I only promised because _you_ did too. Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to say something to him? Hestia told us that he saved us, Mum, and we don't even know what he saved us from, and I've been wanting to ask him ever since, but we _promised_ that we wouldn't. What the hell am I supposed to think now, mum? What am I supposed to think?"

"Don't talk about—"

"Don't talk about what?" Dudley cut her off, and suddenly he was yelling, not caring about the other patrons in the restaurant, not caring about the waiters or anyone else. "You lied, mum, you _lied_ to us!" He stood up, fuming, and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "Forget it, mum, you know what, I'm not hungry anymore." He pulled several large bills out of the wallet and threw them onto the table. They fluttered down in a completely unsatisfactory way. "I'm leaving. You enjoy your brunch, Mum; that should cover it. Tell Dad I say hi. Or you know what, don't. Because if you promise to, I don't know anymore that you really will." Dudley snatched up his champagne glass, finished it off in a single gulp, put the glass back on the table and stalked away, ignoring his mother's protests.

The other patrons of the restaurant had gone silent, watching the exchange, perhaps recognizing the famous boxer, perhaps simply scandalized by his conduct. Dudley didn't care.

The restaurant was on a busy street, but there were unusually few taxis going past. None stopped at Dudley's summons, so he was still waiting at the curb when his mother came running out.

"Dudley, wait!" Petunia put her hand on his arm. He shook it off.

"What? What do you want? What do you have to say?"

"Dudley, please, can we talk? We should talk."

"About what? About why you lied?"

"Yes." Petunia's answer was so unexpected that Dudley dropped the arm he had outstretched to hail a cab. "It wasn't simple, Dudley, there was…I should explain it to you. I didn't mean to lie."

"Yeah, well, you did. And that's it." Dudley put his arm back out, and this time a taxi came swerving towards them immediately. He opened the door and prepared to get in.

"It's not, it isn't. Please, Dudley."

Dudley paused, then sighed. He waved his mother into the taxi. "Look, we can't talk here. And I'm not going back in there. Let's go to a park or something, okay?"

Petunia released a long breath and slid into the cab. Dudley climbed in after her, drained in the aftermath of his anger. "St. James's Park," he told the cabbie. It was the only park in London whose name he remembered at that moment, even though he knew it wasn't the closest. "Don't say anything, Mum. Not until we get there. I don't want to talk for a bit."

He hoped St. James's Park was far away.

* * *

 _I get it if you don't want to come or if you don't want to mention anything to Uncle Vernon or anything like that. But Ginny agrees with me, you and Dudley should come. I'm not saying you're my only family. I've got a big family now, blood or not. But you're still family, and that means something._

 _I know my mum would've wanted you to come. And I know that you know it too._

Dudley finished reading the unsigned note that had come with the invitation while sitting on a park bench overlooking the water in the park and then read it again. His mother was sitting quietly—uncomfortably—next to him.

He had listened in disbelief as Petunia had told him about getting together for tea once a year, commemorating her sister's death, unacknowledged for so long. She'd told a long story about a boy who had come between two sisters who had once loved each other more than anything, about an old man who spoke often about the power of love, about guilt and resentment and sorrow, all repressed into hatred for sixteen years. And then she told Dudley that the ten months they had spent hidden away from the world that they knew had brought all of that to the fore; when he'd reached out that summer and asked to talk, she agreed without really knowing why.

"And, Dudley, he _knew_. He knew everything, he knew all about that awful Snape boy and what had happened to us. He'd known Snape, been taught by him, and learned everything about me that I had tried to forget for so many years, that his being with us had forced me to remember every day. And he looked me in the eye, Dudley, and do you know what he said? He said, 'I get it all now— _and I forgive you_.' I didn't even know I'd been waiting to hear it, but hearing the truth for the first time in so long…it was such relief.

"I had loved her, Dudley, really loved her. And then I lost her. And when he was left on the doorstep, I lost a part of myself—I knew that she was dead. And I had never made it right with her. And he was there, everyday for _sixteen years_ , Dudley, sixteen, reminding me everyday of what I had lost. I never hated him, but I hated what he was to me. Every time I saw his face with her eyes looking back at me, I remembered, and I tried not to.

"When he looked me in the eye at that coffee shop four years ago and told me that he understood, it was such relief. Such relief. I wasn't looking for his forgiveness, but he gave it to me, and it was everything I needed."

Petunia had gone on to describe the annual meetings. They recapped each other's lives during the intervening year, drank coffee or tea, then said good-bye. That was it, she said. And then the invitation had shown up with the note, and here they were.

Dudley didn't speak during her story. He'd spent nearly a year hiding with his parents in a remote Welsh village with people he barely knew, and his mother had never once mentioned the reasons _why_ they were hiding. It felt so strange to know it now.

"But, mum," he said at last, "why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"How could I? How was I supposed to tell you?"

"Like you just did!"

"I've never done anything harder in my life, Dudley," Petunia admitted.

Dudley took several deep breaths, trying to decide what to say next. "I've wanted to talk to him for four years. Four years, Mum. And you were talking to him all along."

"What did you want to say to him?" Petunia asked, confused.

Dudley bit his tongue and frowned. The truth was, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. He just knew that there was something, something important that he wanted to say to his cousin. He settled for that. "He's my cousin, mum," he said. "We grew up together. And he saved my life. It feels weird not to have anything to do with him."

"You thanked him for that," Petunia reminded her son, sounding more bemused than ever.

"Thanked him?" Dudley looked at his mother in disbelief. "It'll never be enough to just say thanks for that. My life, Mum, he saved my life." The darkness, the cold, the sound of a long, rattling breath… Dudley broke out into a cold sweat remembering the fate he had narrowly avoided, saved by a glowing moose. "You can't ever understand what it was like that night and what he saved me from. I thanked him? I owe him everything."

Petunia looked at her hands, which were absentmindedly folding the note into a minute square. The silence between them stretched on as she unfolded the note and smoothed its creases out. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said softly, staring at the messy black handwriting of the note.

"Yeah, well, that's it then," Dudley huffed. He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, as he put his hands behind his head. "So what now?"

"I don't know," Petunia said. "I don't know."

"Are you going to go to the wedding?"

"I don't know."

A group of babbling tourists ambled past, and Dudley watched them walk past. It was early spring in London, and these tourists, with their brash American accents and too-heavy coats, were out of place in the peaceful green expanse of the park. Dudley wished they would move away, go tour Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey or wherever it was they were going.

"Do you reckon their weddings are the same as ours?" Dudley asked over the noisy tourists.

Petunia shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

"What about your—"

"I didn't go." Petunia's voice was sharp. "We didn't go," she said more softly.

Dudley opened his mouth, the _why not_ already halfway to his tongue, when he saw a streak through the makeup on his mother's cheek and thought better of that line of questioning. The American tourists moved on to a new locale, and Dudley watched them go. Petunia pulled a handkerchief from her pocketbook and delicately blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

Once the tourists were gone, Dudley drew a deep breath. "We should go," he declared.

Petunia paused in the process of putting her handkerchief away. "Do you think so?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah. We…he's family, right? We should go."

"Are you sure?" Petunia stuffed the note inside her pocketbook after the handkerchief. "What if he's only reaching out because of you, Diddykins? What if he wants money? You're famous, Diddykins, he must think you've got lots of money to spare…"

Dudley dropped his hands into his lap and turned to stare at his mother. "Are you serious? Really?"

"I don't know, Diddykins. The letter arrived the same day as your big match. What if…?"

"So what if he does want money?" Dudley demanded, the words surprising even himself. But a silver deer flashed before his eyes, and he continued. "If he wants money, he can have it. We owe it to him, mum. We owe it."

"We don't—"

"Besides, when has he ever asked for anything from us? Has he ever asked you for money at any of your meetings?"

"No." Petunia blushed. "He-he pays," she added, stammering over the words.

Dudley nodded his head. "Right, then, that's settled. We should go."

Petunia cleared her throat. "Do you think we should tell your father?" she asked.

"I dunno. Maybe. He won't want to go, either way."

"But he will. If we tell him he should, he'll go."

"I dunno, mum. That's up to you." Dudley stood up, holding his hand out to his mother to help her up as well. "Let's get you back to your hotel, mum." At the word hotel, Dudley thought of Gabrielle for the first time since his mother had mentioned receiving any letters. He had left her still in bed in the hotel room, though not without telling her where he was going and why. She'd smiled at hearing him say that he'd promised to have brunch with his mother. He had told her that he didn't expect to be back until the early afternoon, but that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked and help herself to room service. He wondered, in retrospect, if he'd sounded too plaintive when he told her she could stay.

"Something the matter, Diddykins?" Petunia inquired, seeing Dudley's distant expression.

Dudley blinked and shook himself a little. "Yeah, no, I'm fine, mum."

They walked together to the park exit. Dudley hailed a cab and settled his mother inside. "Are you all right on your own?" he asked her. "I want to head back to my hotel, if that's good with you."

"Of course, of course, go," Petunia urged. She kissed him on the cheek. "We'll talk on the phone about getting to the wedding, how does that sound?"

"Great. Sounds great, mum." The two exchanged a few more perfunctory good-byes before he closed the door and let the cabbie pull away.

Hailing another taxi for himself, Dudley changed his focus, trying without success to push all thoughts of Harry Potter and his upcoming wedding out of his mind. He thought of Gabrielle, who, with any luck, was waiting for him back at the hotel. He slid into the cab with a crease between his eyebrows and a smile on his lips.

* * *

He was lucky. After bouncing on the balls of his feet all through the elevator ride up to his floor and fumbling with the key to his suite, he barged into the bedroom to find Gabrielle sprawled across the bed that, evidently, housekeeping had found the chance to remake. She was dressed in a pair of Dudley's sweatpants and an overlarge t-shirt, a normally appalling combination, but, of course, on her it was an ensemble barely short of jaw-dropping. She was lying on her stomach, facing away from the door, and flipping through a magazine.

Seeing her there, and in his clothes, no less, Dudley felt his heart stutter, and he grinned. He leaned against the doorway and wolf-whistled. Gabrielle turned her head to look at him.

"Ah, you are back!" she cried.

"You're still here," Dudley replied, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice.

Gabrielle smiled and rolled onto her back, the pages of the magazine crinkling beneath her. "How is _ta mère_?" she yawned, stretching her arms up over his head. As her arms went up, a small gap appeared between the bottom of her shirt and the waistband of her pants. Dudley found himself staring at this alluring space with rapt attention, a stupid grin spreading across his face. Gabrielle snapped her fingers. " _Allô, allô, allô, monsieur Dudley, mon visage est ici_!" she said, gesturing to her head.

Dudley's eyes snapped up to look at Gabrielle's face. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. He sauntered over to the bed and perched himself on the edge of the mattress. "I couldn't help thinking about last night, you know?"

"Mm." Gabrielle put her arms down, taking Dudley's hand in one of her own as she did so, lacing her fingers with his.

"I had a great time."

" _Oui_."

"Oui? Is that it?"

" _Oui_. _Bien sûr_ you had a good time. I had a good time."

Dudley raised his eyebrows. "Is that how it works, then?"

Gabrielle pulled herself up and put her lips next to Dudley's ear. " _Bien sûr_ ," she whispered. Dudley felt his breath go unsteady. Gabrielle leaned back slightly, looking at his face. He reached with his free hand to pull her back for a kiss, and she obliged, kissing him passionately. When they separated to draw breath, she said, "I would like to have another good time with you, yes?"

Dudley slipped his arm around her waist. "I'm ready for a good time right now," he said.

Gabrielle kissed him again. " _Moi aussi_ ," she sighed. Dudley tightened the arm around her waist. "But I cannot, Dudley, _non_ , I am sorry."

"Is something wrong?"

" _Non, merci_ , but I have not the time. I should have left _il y a une heure_. I have to go to my sister, but I wanted first to see you before I go."

Dudley groaned and released his grip on her. He fell backwards onto the bed and threw an arm over his eyes. "Sisters," he growled. "They're nothing but trouble."

Gabrielle's eyebrows drew together. "You have the sister?"

"No, they always seem to make life difficult," he said bitterly, thinking for a moment of the tear tracks on his mother's face.

Gabrielle bent her head and planted one more light kiss on his lips before sliding off the bed. Dudley propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. She grabbed her belongings off of a chair and glided into the bathroom.

"So, what, is this it?" Dudley called to the bathroom.

" _Non_ , I told you that I would like another good time, yes?" Gabrielle's voice echoed back from the bathroom. "I waited for you because I did not like to leave without telling you this."

"Right, well, when are you free again?" Dudley asked, standing up.

Gabrielle's head popped out of the bathroom doorway. She had already managed to change back into the dress she had worn the night before and was tugging at its sequined top. "I go back to France," she said apologetically. "After I see my sister, I go back to France, _sans intermédiaire_."

"Well, when are you back in England, then?" Dudley demanded.

"Zip me?" Gabrielle requested, turning around. Dudley strode obligingly to the bathroom and slid the zipper up, deliberately moving more slowly than he needed to. "I am back _en Angleterre_ next month. _Mon beau-frère_ has a sister who is getting married, and I am going." She paused then smiled over her shoulder at Dudley. "She is marrying my first… _comment dites-vous en anglais? Mon premier béguin_ _?_ "

Dudley shook his head, not understanding. "Something about your pretty brother?"

" _Non_ , my sister, yes?"

"Yeah?"

"Her husband. _His_ sister. She is getting married to the person I first… _like_ , yes, I _like_ him? _Romantiquement_?"

That Dudley understood. "Oh, your first crush?"

" _Précisément_!" Gabrielle exclaimed. " _Alors_ , I will be back in England next month for that. The first Saturday of the month."

A date written in green ink popped into Dudley's head; it was also next month. "Want to go to two weddings?" he asked.

" _Qu'est-ce que ce_?"

"My cousin's getting married on the fourth, and we only just got the invitation. Want to go with me?"

Gabrielle shrugged. "This is which day?"

"The fourth."

"Yes, but _lundi, mercredi, vendredi_ _…_?"

"Erm," Dudley said, frowning. "Let me check." He went back into the main room of the suite, where he thought he had seen a calendar on the table at some point. Finding it, he turned the page to May and immediately sighed in defeat. "It's the first Saturday of the month," he reported to Gabrielle, who had followed several steps behind him, slipping her heels on effortlessly while she walked. He turned around and embraced her. "Ditch your wedding and come to mine," he suggested.

"I cannot, it is family."

"Barely," Dudley scoffed.

"It is a Saturday," Gabrielle said thoughtfully. "I can meet you that Sunday, maybe?"

Dudley rolled his eyes and kissed her again. "If that's all you've got," he conceded.

"Sunday, the fifth, then," Gabrielle declared. " _C'est réglé_. _Et maintenant_ I must go. My friend from the club yesterday, he is waiting for me; we go to my sister together."

"Oh, yeah, your friend, huh? Not the same as your first crush, is he?" Dudley asked, his jealousy getting the better of him.

" _Non_! My first crush he is English, yes, but this friend he is not from England." Gabrielle stepped out of Dudley's embrace and raised her eyebrows at him. "He is like you, I think. A famous athlete."

Jealousy roared more powerfully through Dudley. "Oh, yeah? What sport does he play?"

"He is not English, you would not know." At the expression of suspicion on Dudley's face, she laughed outright. " _Ne panique pas_ , Dudley. Viktor is too old for me. He is my sister's friend, we are just traveling together while he visits her. Besides, he is ugly and he walks like a duck."

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Look, here's my number okay?" Dudley handed Gabrielle a slip of paper that he had torn off the bottom of the calendar after scrawling his usual telephone number on it. "Call me. Call collect, that's fine. Don't let long distance or whatever stop you, please?"

Gabrielle looked a little bewildered, but she accepted the paper, tucking it into the top of her dress. With one final peck on the lips, she headed to the door. Dudley didn't follow, rooted to the spot by a despair he couldn't quite explain.

" _Adieu_ , Dudley. Until Sunday the fifth."

"Sunday the fifth," Dudley agreed. "Call me."

Gabrielle gave a little wave and then slipped out the door. Dudley stared at the space where she had been for a few moments. When the image of her departing figure faded slightly from his retinas, he went to sit in a chair to contemplate weddings, silver deer, and the beautiful French woman who consumed his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3: Journey to the Burrow

The phone never rang. Dudley waited anxiously near the telephone in his luxurious estate house in Surrey—not half an hour's drive from number 4 Privet Drive, where he'd grown up and where his parents still lived—but it never once rang.

At first, he assumed Gabrielle was still travelling and had no time to call. A week after their parting, he grew angry, blaming her for leading him on and making him think that there was something more to their relationship beyond a one-night stand. After another week passed, the anger at Gabrielle faded to be replaced with anger at himself. As he resumed his regular training regimen, he struck the punching bag with extra vigor, infuriated that he could have been stupid enough to imagine that there had been anything more than a one-night stand. He'd met a girl at the club, drunk a lot, and gone back to his hotel. That wasn't the formula for a deep and lasting relationship.

The weirdest thing was that Dudley wasn't interested in a deep or lasting relationship. He'd only ever been on a few dates, never really had a steady girlfriend, and he'd always been content with that. Long-term relationships didn't suit him very well, he'd always thought. He shouldn't have cared if Gabrielle never called.

But, of course, he did care. He cared very much.

One day, while Dudley was in a particularly bad bout of anger at himself, Piers stopped by to talk, as always, about money. As he helped himself to Dudley's rather depleted stock of whiskey, he observed Dudley's unkempt appearance—he'd let his hair grow out too far, he hadn't shaved, and he had dirty laundry thrown haphazardly around the spacious living room.

"Letting yourself go, Big D?" Piers asked, sipping from his glass before making a face and adding two ice cubes.

Dudley, who was sitting in an armchair taking swigs from a bottle of beer held loosely in his hand, only grunted in response.

"Look, D, you can't go to pieces. You're the world champion, mate; you've got to act it. People haven't seen you since the win. Ozols met with the press right after the match, vowed a rematch and everything. We've issued statements, but your fans need to see _you_ , Dud, they need to see Big D. And they sure as hell can't see you like this!" Piers drained his watered-down whiskey and coughed. "What's it about, Dud? Why are you doing this?"

"Go to hell, Piers," Dudley said, and he took another swig of beer.

Piers was quiet for a moment. Then he straightened his tie and said, "I've put your winnings from the match into a fund that should offer a nice payout. You've got several companies waiting to talk to you about sponsorship opportunities. I think I may have someone interested in making you the face of their brand, even, how about that?"

Dudley snorted.

"Whatever the hell is wrong with you, Dud, you better fix it, right?" Piers waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. "Is this about a girl, Dud? Is that what this is? Get burned, did you?"

"Leave me alone."

"Oh, so it is a girl. Right. Buck up, mate. There's plenty of other—"

"Shove off, Piers, okay? Just drop it."

"Dudley, mate, look," Piers began, making an obvious effort to sound soothing, "we all miss a shot here and there. Sometimes a girl just gets away. It happens. You know what you need? You need a night out, find yourself a new mark. I'm out of town until Saturday morning, but what say we go out then? It's not Friday, but there's bound to be some girls in the club. And if they're there on a Saturday, Dud, you know they've got to be desperate," Piers chuckled.

Dudley finished off his beer and balanced the empty bottle on the arm of his chair. "Can't," he grunted.

"Oh, come on, mate—"

"I'm busy Saturday." Dudley rubbed his stubbly cheek as he considered his weekend plans for the first time since his brunch with his mother. "You remember my cousin Harry?"

"Sure, scrawny git with the scar on his head?"

"That's him. He's getting married on Saturday."

Piers snorted. "Really? I figured he was definitely gay."

Dudley frowned. "What'd you think that for?"

"I dunno, I guess because he was always so… _brooding_ , you know? I mean, he only ever came back to Little Whinging for the summer holidays, and then he'd spend all his time alone, shut up inside the house or lurking around the neighborhood. Plus, you know, your dad hated him, so I just thought…" Piers trailed off with a shrug.

"That's not why—" Dudley began, but he stopped abruptly shaking his head. "Anyway, my mum and I are going to his wedding."

"Oh. Well, congratulations, I guess," Piers said.

"Yeah…" Dudley yawned. A sudden thought struck him. "What d'you reckon I should wear? You go to things like this, I don't. What do I wear?"

"Are you a member of the wedding party?"

"No, why would I be?"

"The hell do I know, Dud, I thought you hated each other's guts, but you're going to his wedding. Jesus, Big D, when was the last time you even spoke to him?"

It was Dudley's turn to shrug. "It's been a while."

"Just wear a dark suit, light shirt, plain tie. Can't go wrong with that, mate, it's foolproof."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, definitely. And shave, mate—you look like a caveman."

* * *

It was no caveman who pulled his sleek Mercedes up in front of number four, Privet Drive, on Saturday morning. Dudley was actually quite pleased with how he looked; he'd mostly taken Piers's advice and wore a sharp, navy blue suit with a light blue shirt. He had selected a tie from his wardrobe, but it lay in a huddle on the passenger's seat of his car, ready if he needed it but not essential to his outfit.

As he leaned against the glistening paint of the driver's side door, Dudley checked his watch, a strange anxiety tightening his stomach. He was exactly on time, an anomaly for him. Also out of character was Petunia's absence from hovering about the front window, waiting for him. Dudley had expected to see the window curtains twitching back into place as he'd pulled into the driveway, but there was no sign of life. And now he'd been there nearly a full minute and his mother hadn't come rushing out.

He checked his watch again. Two minutes.

Dudley pushed himself away from the car, about to move towards his parents' front door, when it opened, and his mother stepped out. She was wearing a lovely blue dress that coordinated perfectly—if unintentionally—with Dudley's suit. A matching blue handbag dangled from her arm as she checked that the door was locked behind her, and she had a neat blue hat held in her hand. In all, she looked a bit like the Queen, with her excessively coordinated outfit, though a good bit younger.

"Morning, Diddykins," Petunia murmured, pecking Dudley on the cheek. Dudley gave his mother a perfunctory kiss in return and opened the passenger door.

When Petunia was settled in and Dudley had shut the door behind her, he slid behind the wheel and turned the car on. He put one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift, and then froze.

"Where are we going?" he asked his mother, puzzled. It occurred to him then, and for the first time ever, that he had no idea where the other world was. A half a dozen ideas immediately flashed through his brain, most prominent of which was a truly _other_ world, to which one would have to travel by portal. But then he remembered a troupe of ginger men in oddly mismatched clothing stumbling out of the fireplace they had just blown up, and he imagined that the other world was really just a miniature, that they all shrank down to be one-inch tall and lived inside the walls of other people's houses. The idea seemed almost plausible for a minute, until Dudley remembered owls and realized that an owl would see a one-inch tall person and eat him, rather than carry his letters. Then he remembered crowds of people appearing out of nowhere at King's Cross Station, and then the idea of a portal didn't seem unreasonable anymore.

While Dudley imagined, Petunia rifled through her purse, pulling out the invitation and the note that had come with it. She glanced at both, then frowned and looked more closely. "The invitation says that the wedding is in Devon—some small town in the country, I suppose, I've never heard of Ottery St. Catchpole—but the directions he wrote out say to go south _east_. That can't be right."

"Let me see," Dudley said, reaching for the note with the directions. Sure enough, his mother was correct. "Well, what do we do now?" Dudley demanded, irritated.

Petunia blinked and drew in a deep breath. "I…I suppose we follow the directions," she decided. Dudley snorted, but he put the car into gear and turned southeast.

They drove for well over an hour through quiet country roads until the directions ended. When they did, Dudley pulled his car over to the side of the otherwise and empty road and turned off the engine. He had no idea where they were. There was certainly no village or wedding anywhere that he could see. Instead, rolling green fields with the occasional sheep stretched out before him for miles.

"Here we are," he told Petunia. "We're definitely not in Devon. Do you reckon he was taking the piss?"

"I don't know," Petunia replied. She sounded distressed. Dudley glanced over at her, trying to gauge how upset she was, when he spotted a man sitting and reading a book in the field on the opposite side of the road. Fumbling in his haste, Dudley scrambled out of the car and jogged across the road.

"Oi! Hello, hey, you!" he shouted.

The man looked up. He was a round-faced gentleman with an odd scar on his lip and a pleasant smile on his face. His baggy clothing and raincoat spilled onto the grass around him, presumably protecting him from the grass's dampness. On seeing Dudley, he cocked his head to the side and looked expectant. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Sorry to bother you, but you don't happen to know the way to Ottery St. Catchpole, do you?" Dudley inquired, feeling stupid.

A broad grin stretched across the man's face. "Ottery St. Catchpole, you say? Aren't you in the wrong part of the country for that? That's in Devon, mate."

"Yeah, I know, I just—"

The man laughed. "I'm kidding, sorry. You must be Dudley. Harry asked me to wait here and collect you. I'm Neville, by the way, Neville Longbottom." He rose to his feet and held out his hand to Dudley. As he stood, the clothing that Dudley had presumed to be a rain slicker settled into its proper form, and Dudley recognized the odd robes like the ones that he'd seen on his cousin's old headmaster.

"Oh, so you're a, uh…you're, you know…"

Longbottom's smile faded, and he seemed puzzled. "I'm a mate of Harry and Ginny's from school. I'm meant to bring you and your mum to the wedding. Is that her there?" he asked, gesturing towards the car. Dudley nodded, and Longbottom immediately turned and loped towards the car.

Petunia rolled down her window. "Are you here to direct us to the wedding?" she asked timidly.

"No, I'm here to _take_ you to the wedding," Longbottom said. "You may want to move your car off the road."

Petunia's eyes widened slightly, and Dudley put a large hand on Longbottom's shoulder. "What're you doing with our car?" he demanded.

"Nothing! But this seems a silly place to leave it, don't you think? What if someone comes along and tries to figure out what it's doing here?"

Dudley hesitated. "Are we not—not driving?"

Longbottom smiled the way that people smile at those poorly endowed with brains. "That'd be a long drive, mate. Besides, with the security measures that we've had to put in place—what with it being such a high profile wedding and all, you know, we don't want anybody there who shouldn't be—there's no way we'd be able to get in by driving. Nah, we're taking a portkey. Don't worry, Hermione promised that it will perfectly safe, her parents have already traveled to the Burrow via a portkey she set up for them. So, do you want to move the car?"

Dudley and his mother exchanged a glance. Nearly half of what Longbottom said was total gibberish to them.

"What in the fresh hell is a portkey?" Dudley demanded.

"Is the wedding high profile?" Petunia inquired, sounding taken aback.

"Course it is!" Longbottom exclaimed. "It's Harry-bloody-Potter! And he's marrying the Harpies' star chaser. The Minister of Magic is going to attend, along with most of the ministry's highest profile officials. There are a whole bunch of internationally acclaimed Quidditch players who're meant to turn up. It's the most anticipated wedding in the whole wizarding world!"

Neither Dudley nor Petunia had anything to respond to such a claim. After a brief pause, Dudley cleared his throat. "So…what's a portkey?"

Longbottom pointed to the field where he had been sitting. "It's just there. If you move the car there, we can be underway. We've only got about ten minutes before the portkey's scheduled to leave anyway."

Still confused, Dudley slid back into the driver's seat and followed Longbottom's directions to park the car off the road in a field. When that was done, Dudley made to get out of the car, but Petunia grabbed his arm.

"Dudley," she said, her voice low and urgent, "are we certain that this is safe?"

Dudley shrugged. "There's no one around, mum. Who's going to steal the car here?"

"And the rest of it?" Petunia asked. Dudley frowned, not comprehending. "Going to this wedding? Where we'll know no one, we'll have nothing in common with anyone, we won't know what's happening?"

"I reckon we already made that decision, mum," Dudley said, waving his hand in a general motion towards the empty fields around them. "We're going." He pushed himself out of the car and went around to the passenger side to hold the door for his mother.

Longbottom had returned to the spot in the field where Dudley and Petunia had originally found him. When the two Dursleys joined him, he was standing next to and staring intently at what looked to be a frying pan whose handle had broken off. He glanced at Dudley. "Have you got the time?" he asked, a note of anxiety tingeing his voice.

Dudley checked his watch. "It's half past," he said.

"No, no, the exact time."

"The exact time? Twenty-eight minutes past the hour."

Longbottom pulled a watch out of an inside pocket of his robes and studied the face. "Right, right, that's what I've got as well," he muttered. He looked at Petunia. "Harry said you'd be prompt, and Hermione took him at his word, so when he said you'd be here at half past, she scheduled the portkey for half past. That gives us two minutes. Right. Yeah. Okay, two minutes, perfect."

"What happens in two minutes?" Dudley asked, scanning the surrounding area quickly for signs of an imminently arriving portal.

"Uh, well, the portkey will sort of, I guess…activate? And then we just, you know, grab on, and the portkey will pull us there. It'll sort of grab you in your stomach. I don't know, that's as best as I can explain it—it's not as though I know how portkeys work, I just know that they _do_."

"So it's…it's like a portal?" Dudley said, his excitement slipping through into his voice.

"I'm not sure," Longbottom said, frowning. "I don't really know what you mean by portal, so I guess—"

He was interrupted by a small gasp from Petunia. "Is it meant to do that?" she said, pointing at the broken pan. It was glowing dully, tinged blue. Longbottom swore.

"Quick, quick, grab it, grab it!" he shouted, lunging towards the ground. When Dudley and Petunia hesitated, he uttered an inarticulate yelp and swung the pan up into the air. "Now, now!" he screamed.

Galvanized by Longbottom's obvious panic, the Dursleys both moved forward and stretched out their hands towards the pan. Their hands touched it at the same moment, but nothing happened. Longbottom continued to stare forcefully at the pan.

"On my count," he said without looking up, "hold tight and prepare for the lurch—and," he added, a touch ruefully, "you'll want to close your eyes. On my count, okay?" A moment later, it glowed brighter, suddenly a brilliant, bright blue. "Three, two, one!" Longbottom cried out.

Dudley squeezed his eyes shut at the same time as the ground beneath his feet gave a great heave and some force behind his stomach yanked him up and in, towards the pan but also somewhere else entirely. Dudley felt as he imagined a fish might, if instead of having the hook in its mouth the fish swallowed the hook and got it lodged in its stomach as it was towed against its will towards an unknown destination. He could feel air whizzing past him and considered opening his eyes to see where he was and what the inside of a portal looked like, but he didn't have the courage. Besides, he was having a hard enough time holding the contents of his stomach in place without the additional strain of forcing his unwilling lids open.

Just when it felt like he couldn't take another second of the portkey's tugging, the sensation ceased, and Dudley's feet slammed into the ground. The force of the impact made his knees buckle and give way beneath him, and some instinctual part of him reached out to steady his mother, who had stumbled forward several steps.

"Hi, Neville, glad you made it okay," a voice behind Dudley said. Still holding his mother, he turned to see a stocky, startlingly red-haired man in dark green robes leaning casually against a fence. Next to him was the most bizarre creature that Dudley had ever seen. It had the head and upper torso of what appeared to be a giant eagle, complete with wings tucked against its sides, and the back legs and hindquarters of a horse. It was lying down, its head resting on its large orange talons, but its eyes were open, staring at Dudley.

"Hey, Charlie, nice haircut. Your mum get to it again?" Longbottom asked, his voice cheerful but unsteady. He was on his feet beside Dudley, but he seemed a bit wobbly.

"Yeah, I don't know what her problem is with me leaving it long. She never does anything to Bill's," the redhead grumbled.

"Maybe she's figured that it's his wife's problem these days," Longbottom suggested.

"Maybe. You all right, Neville? You sound a bit off."

Longbottom shrugged. "I hate traveling by portkey. I'd rather floo, but Harry said that was a bad idea." He strode forward and bowed low to the horrid creature lying beside Charlie. It stood up, shaking out its wings as it did, and bowed in return. Longbottom put out a hand and patted its beak. "Good to see you too, Buckbeak."

"Careful, Neville, he's Witherwings in company," Charlie said. "This place is crawling with Ministry folk."

Longbottom chuckled. "Come on, Charlie, half your family's Ministry. Nobody even remembers Buckbeak's sentence anymore. Hagrid forgets to call him Witherwings half the time, anyway."

"Still, Hagrid asked me to look after him. I'd be doing a poor job of it if I let someone drag him away for being a Dangerous Creatures escapee, wouldn't I?"

While Longbottom and Charlie chatted, Dudley and Petunia regained their bearings. They were still in a field, but this one was different. It was on a sloping hillside overlooking a large green area. In the distance to his right, Dudley could see a small village on the banks of a river. To his left were more hills and fields and a single, multi-story house that looked to be in serious danger of toppling over. Beside the house was a large white tent, from which emanated the distant sounds of music and voices.

Charlie stuck out his hand to Dudley. "You must be Harry's cousin. I'm Charlie, Ginny's brother," he said.

Dudley shook the proffered hand gingerly. Charlie looked familiar, but Dudley couldn't quite place him. "Dudley Dursley," he said. "And this is my mother, Petunia. My cousin's—"

"Yeah, I know, Harry's aunt and cousin. He asked me to wait here to make sure Neville got you here okay. Had a safe trip, did you?"

"All right," Dudley answered, while Charlie shook Petunia's tentative hand.

"Portkey must've been a new experience for you, huh?"

"Uh, yeah, new," Dudley said.

Charlie laughed. "I'm guessing it's not your favorite mode of transport. Don't worry, though, it's perfectly safe. Anyway, we'd better get going. Not too long now until the ceremony, so we'd best be heading back to the Burrow. Neville, d'you mind leading the way? I've got to coax Witherwings."

"Bloody hell, Charlie, just call him Buckbeak. You know if he's discovered Kingsley will pardon him."

"It's not worth risking his life!" Charlie insisted.

Longbottom sighed and rolled his eyes, but he smiled kindly at the Dursleys. "Right, shall we, then?" he said. When neither Petunia nor Dudley responded, his smile wavered and he turned and walked off in the direction of the lopsided house, gesturing behind him for the others to follow. "This way."

Dudley and Petunia trekked behind Longbottom in silence. Every so often, Dudley had to give his mother a hand as her smart pumps sank into the soft, muddy ground. Their progress was slow, but the house wasn't as far away as it had looked, and they found themselves on the outskirts of what was a rather large party in the marquee. Before entering the shade of the tent, Longbottom turned back and smiled at the Dursleys.

"Right, well. This is it. Enjoy the wedding!" he said cheerily. Without another word, he disappeared into the throng of people within.

Petunia grabbed Dudley's elbow. "We should g-go in," she said, sounding unsure.

"Do we know _anyone_ here?" Dudley wondered aloud.

"I don't know."

"D'you reckon Hestia or Dedalus will be here?"

"I-I suppose they could be?"

Silence fell between the mother and son as they both screwed up the courage to step into the crowd of strangers. Before they could properly steel themselves, someone came hurtling out of the crowd at them. She was a plain looking young woman in a lovely pale green dress, her thick brown hair pulled up into a fancy knot at the back of her head. She had an impatient look about her, and her eyes lit up when she spotted the Dursleys.

"Thank goodness you're here!" she called out, racing over. "Sorry we've never been properly introduced; I'm Hermione Granger, Harry's friend. Come with me, we've been waiting for you." She spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth like grains of rice being poured out of a bag, falling over one another before landing with a whisper of sound. After brusquely shaking both Dudley and Petunia's hands, she turned towards the crowd and stepped into it, expecting the Dursleys to follow. Petunia looped her arm tightly through Dudley's and clutched her handbag more securely. Dudley slipped his unoccupied hand into his trouser pocket, surreptitiously holding on to his wallet. Thus guarded, they followed after the abrupt Hermione Granger into the crowd of unfamiliar, strangely dressed wizards.

As they made their way squeezing between the closely packed people, Dudley became acutely aware of how much he and his mother stood out. Everyone else was wearing robes like those Longbottom wore, with a few scattered women wearing elegant gowns like Granger. Most of the men wore tall, pointed hats, as did some of the women, though theirs all had wider brims than the men's. Not one person was dressed in Piers Polkiss's "foolproff" combination of dark suit and light shirt, nor a calf-length dress with sensible heels.

Once through the crowd, Granger led the Dursleys to the back door of the poorly constructed house that Dudley had observed from the hill. "This is the Burrow, the Weasley's home," she explained. "Harry's here on the top floor getting ready in Ron's room." Even the unobservant Dudley couldn't fail to notice the flush on her cheeks when she said "Ron," and her hands moved unconsciously, her right hand twisting the sparkling ring on her left hand. "I know he'd like to see you before the ceremony. If you'd like, that is."

"Oh, we-we'd love to," Petunia said. Dudley thought her voice sounded flat, but he did his best not to react to that.

"Yeah, it'd feel weird coming all this way and then not, you know, see him, and all," Dudley agreed, hoping his tone was less false.

Granger cleared her throat and then led the way into the house. The small party passed through a kitchen whose every surface was covered in platters of food, and then a living room overcrowded with gift-wrapped boxes to a set of stairs. From somewhere not too far above came the sound of raised voices. As they climbed the stairs, it became evident that the voices were coming from behind a closed door on the first floor landing. Granger paused outside the door.

"Sorry," she slowly, grimacing over her shoulder at the Dursleys, "but I think I should go in to make certain that the bride and her mother both survive until the ceremony. Harry's at the top, though. Really, the room at the very top of the house. You can't miss it, it's a horrid orange color." She shuddered slightly as she said the words.

Dudley nodded. "Right, we'll just…" He waved nonchalantly up the stairs.

Granger smiled at him and then opened the door, stepping in. Before she swung the door shut behind her, Dudley caught a glimpse of a squat woman with red hair that was going white sobbing into a handkerchief, a blonde girl with a dreamy look on her face wearing a dress that matched Granger's, and the bride herself, a petite young woman with flaming red hair and wearing her wedding dress, the traditional white but shot through with gold.

"—be less nervous if you would dispel your obvious wrackspurt," the dreamy blonde was saying.

"For the last time, Luna, it's not a wrackspurt! It's my wedding day!" the bride responded, exasperated.

"It's not your mother's wedding day," the blonde countered.

"Oh, Luna," Granger sighed, entering the room. "It's her only daughter's wedding. Can we please forget about wrackspurts for one day?"

The rest of the conversation was muffled by the closing of the door. Dudley and Petunia quite suddenly found themselves alone on the first floor landing. They exchanged a glance, and Petunia opened her mouth as if to say something, but then she seemed to think better of it and began to climb the rest of the stairs.

The stairs felt like they would never end, and Petunia was wheezing slightly beside Dudley by the time they reached the top. There before them was a door that stood slightly ajar, through which they could, indeed, discern a vivid orange tint. Here, too, they could hear voices.

"You're sure it's a good idea for Grawp to be here?"

"You try telling Hagrid that his brother isn't invited to my wedding," a once-familiar voice responded with a trace of bitterness. The voice sighed. "Besides, Grawp saved—"

"Saved your life, yeah, mate, but so did Narcissa Malfoy and you didn't invite her."

"That's different. Grawp saved me _and_ Hermione. From Umbridge. Come on, Ron, drop it. At least he didn't insist on bringing an honorary member of Aragog's family."

"Yeah, well, I think even Hagrid's a bit off them ever since they tried to eat him."

Dudley raised his hand to knock on the door, but he was distracted by the sound of hurried, small feet on the stairs. He turned just in time to see a little boy with turquoise hair hurtle up the last few steps and straight into Dudley's knees. Before Dudley or Petunia could say anything, the little boy had dodged around them and slipped through the gap in the doorway and into the room.

"Uncle Harry!" he squealed.

"Teddy! What've you done with your hair? You've got to leave it brown today, Teddy, or Gran Molly will kill me, okay?"

"I don't like it brown!"

"I know, kid, but it's just for today. When you go to sleep tonight, you can put it however you like. Brown, Teddy. Just for today. Let's go." This directive was followed by an exasperated sigh from the little boy. In the lull of conversation, Dudley drew up his courage and knocked on the door. "Now who do you reckon that is, Teddy? Come in!"

Petunia straightened her skirt, and Dudley fastened the top button on his jacket before pushing the door fully open. Inside the small, cramped room, were two men and the little boy who had just arrived, and whose hair was now a plain light brown. One of the men, tall, gangly, and red-haired, was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet up on what looked like and empty fish tank that sat on the floor. He was long-nosed and freckled, and he grinned when he saw Dudley. The other man was the more familiar of the two. He was tall and slim, with messy jet black hair and bright green eyes behind round wire-rimmed glasses. And on his forehead was a thin red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. He held the little boy in his arms comfortably, as if the child was a common fixture on his hip. His robes were a bottle green that drew out the color of his eyes and seemed the inspiration for the rest of the green theme that Dudley had seen on the wedding party. When he saw the Dursleys, the gentle smile on his face faltered and then faded, and he set little Teddy down on the floor, giving him a nudge towards the man on the bed.

"I see you made it okay," he said quietly. "Journey all right?"

"Oh, yes, er, a bit odd but perfectly comfortable," Petunia stammered. Dudley didn't say anything.

"Was Neville waiting for you?"

"Yes. Lovely."

An awkward silence fell across the room. Dudley glanced at Teddy, who was now perched on the other man's lap. He was looking curiously up at Petunia and Dudley while he idly swung his feet.

Harry Potter cleared his throat. "How are you, Dudley?"

Dudley slowly returned his gaze to his cousin. "I'm good, thanks. You?"

A smile flickered across Potter's face. "Pretty good. Hey, congratulations on your big win last month. I read about it in the paper," he said.

Dudley's eyebrows rose. "Oh, yeah, thanks. Yeah, it was cool." A thousand questions buzzed through Dudley's head, flitting in and out so quickly that he couldn't seize any long enough to ask it.

"Uh, Aunt Petunia, Dudley, you remember Ron, my best mate?" Potter asked, waving vaguely at the man on the bed. The man swung his legs off the tank and leaned forward to stretch out his hand to Dudley.

"I once came exploding out of your fireplace," he said as he shook Dudley's hand. "And I once drove a flying car to your house, ripped a set of bars off the window, and flew off with Harry. But it was dark that night, I don't know if you saw me."

"I was in bed," Dudley responded.

Potter cleared his throat again. "And this is Teddy Lupin, my godson," he continued, pointing to the little boy. "And my ring bearer, actually. Ron, you've got the rings still?"

"They haven't moved since the last time you asked, mate."

"Right, right. Teddy, come say hello to Aunt Petunia and Dudley."

Teddy slipped off of Ron's lap and approached Aunt Petunia. He looked at her quizzically. "Are you _my_ auntie?" he asked.

"N-no, I'm—" Petunia began.

"She's my aunt, Teddy. Say hello."

"Hello," Teddy said. He held out his little hand at Potter's encouragement.

Petunia knelt slightly and shook his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Teddy," she murmured. She stood and looked at Potter, frowning. "Are you really his uncle?"

"No, just his godfather. I try to spend a lot of time with him," Potter added softly, his smile gone and a ghost-like sadness in his eyes. "His parents were…were important to me. His dad was like a brother to my father, and his mum was also a close friend. So I try to keep close."

"Oh, they're…?" Petunia asked. Potter nodded jerkily.

"We've all lost people we love," he said. "So we've all stuck a bit closer together. The Weasleys didn't know Remus or Tonks—Teddy's parents—for very long, but Teddy spends nearly as much time with his Gran Molly as he does with his real grandmother, Andromeda."

While the adults conversed, Teddy moved on to hold his hand out to Dudley. "Hello," he said again.

Dudley knelt on one knee to reach Teddy and shook his hand. "How old are you?" he asked Teddy.

"Four!" the little boy said excitedly.

"Nice," Dudley responded. He paused, unsure what else to say.

Teddy, however, like most four-year-olds, was perfectly comfortable speaking whatever crossed his mind. "Are you a muggle?" he inquired sweetly.

"Teddy!" Potter said sharply. Ron snickered. "Teddy, we don't ask people that. It doesn't matter who's a muggle and who's a wizard, we treat everybody the same, politely and kindly."

"But _is_ he a muggle, Uncle Harry?"

"Yeah," Dudley said, cutting off his cousin. "Yeah, we're both muggles."

"I know you're a muggle because you're not wearing robes," Teddy informed Dudley proudly. "But I like your clothes better. Robes are scratchy."

Dudley felt his lip twitch. "This suit's kind of scratchy too," he said.

"Oh," Teddy responded, and he sounded disappointed.

Potter scooped Teddy up and turned back to Petunia. "Thank you for coming," he said gravely. "It's…family's important, you know, and for all our differences we do share blood."

"Of course," Petunia said. She looked as uncomfortable as Potter sounded. Dudley stood up and held his hand out to his cousin, feeling slightly more at ease after his conversation with Teddy.

"Look, congratulations on your wedding, mate. We're glad we could be here." The words, to Dudley's own surprise, weren't even a lie.

Potter smiled as he shook Dudley's hand. "Thanks, Big D."


	4. Chapter 4: A Wizard Wedding

The ceremony had been both familiar and strangely unfamiliar to Dudley—or what he'd been able to see of it was, anyway, seated, as he and Petunia found themselves, behind a terrifyingly familiar figure who was about twice the size of a normal man. In fact, Dudley hadn't seen much other than the shaggy back of an enormous head and his own hands as he stared down at them throughout the ceremony.

Dudley hadn't been to too many weddings, it was true, but he'd seen his fair share of them in movies and such. As far as he knew, no ceremony that he'd ever seen ended with doves popping out of golden balloons and singing their way to the sky while the assembled guests laughed and the groom gave a thumbs-up to his one-eared brother-in-law. The bride had seemed less impressed by the display and had grabbed the groom by his face to redirect his attention to a more romantic purpose, eliciting a cheer from the guests.

And then, as if Dudley weren't disoriented enough, the chairs had all risen up in the air before he'd finished standing up. The rest of the huge crowd barely seemed to notice, but Petunia looked like she was on the verge of fainting, and it took Dudley some real, conscious effort to keep his jaw from hanging open. Longbottom reappeared as the throngs surged towards the tables, following the chairs.

"Help you to your seats?" Longbottom inquired politely.

Neither Dudley nor Petunia were able to find their tongues, but they followed Longbottom to a table at the edge of the marquee in which the celebrations were taking place. They were a good ways away from the dance floor, but Dudley thought that might be for the best; it seemed unlikely that they would be dancing, and it wouldn't be bad to be away from the limelight.

The limelight, however, seemed to be following Dudley. Hardly had he and Petunia taken their seats and Longbottom gone off to find his own seat then two men about Dudley's age materialized in front of Dudley, their eyes wide.

"Blimey," the tall black man said, awe in his voice. "You are, aren't you? You're Big D?"

Dudley looked uncomfortably from one man to the other. "Er, yeah," he said after a long pause.

The other man swore and passed a gold coin to his companion. "I thought Harry was taking the mick, claiming his cousin was Big D," he said, an Irish accent tingeing his speech. He held out his hand. "Seamus Finnegan, and this is my mate, Dean Thomas."

Thomas also held out his hand, and Dudley shook them both. "Big fans of yours, Big D, really," Thomas gushed. "We watched your match against that Latvian—ugly bloke, wasn't he? I won a nice haul off of Seamus from that match."

Dudley raised his eyebrows at Finnegan. "You bet on Ozils?"

Finnegan held his hands up in apology. "He's huge, mate. I always bet on size. Don't get me wrong, you earned that win. But there was no way I was putting my money on you, not with his extra reach."

Dudley grinned, glad to be able to talk about something he understood. "No hard feelings, mate," he told Finnegan. "Next time, put your money on skill."

Finnegan laughed. "Yeah, all right, that's fair."

"Hey, Big D, could we get your autograph?" Thomas asked, grabbing a serviette off of a floating tray of champagne glasses.

"Sure," Dudley said. He patted his pocket and grimaced at his new fans. "I haven't got a pen," he apologized.

"Not a problem," Thomas said, plunging his hand into a pocket on his scarlet robes. He pulled out a feather and a small bottle. "What color would you like?"

"Sorry?"

"Ink. What color ink?"

"Oh, uh, black is fine. Or whatever."

Thomas thrust the serviette and feather at Finnegan, who set them on the table, and then drew a long stick from inside one of his sleeves—a wand. Dudley realized he hadn't seen one yet today, but he knew what he was seeing by the swooping in his stomach and the tightening in his chest. He'd seen his cousin's before on several occasions. Thomas tapped the little bottle, and the cork that was stoppering it flew out and fell to the ground. "Right, black it is," Thomas said, setting the bottle down beside serviette and feather.

Dudley hesitated, then picked up the feather. The tip came to a point, making it, he supposed, a quill. He dipped it in the ink, scrawled his signature even more messily than usual, and made to return the quill to Thomas. His attention was abruptly diverted, though, by the sight of silvery-blonde hair that was painfully familiar.

"Excuse me," he mumbled absently, pushing the inky quill into Thomas's hands.

"Dudley! Where are you going?" Petunia demanded as he started to walk away.

"I'll be right back," Dudley said, waving his hand. He did not take his eyes off the hair that had so arrested his attention.

Wedding guests seemed to think it their duty to stand directly in Dudley's path and then act put upon when he sidled past them. He didn't care, all but shoving them out of his way to get to his target. She was deep in conversation with a tall, redheaded man with a badly scarred face, standing close enough to him that Dudley's stomach clenched.

When he was mere feet away from her, almost able to reach out and touch her shoulder, she suddenly disappeared. Dismay rolled through Dudley's mind, only to be quickly displaced by relief as he saw that she had knelt down, out of his immediate line of sight. She was talking to a little girl, barely older than a baby, who had the same silvery hair and was wearing a little white bridesmaid's dress, rather than the robes that the adults were all wearing.

Desperate not to lose sight of her again, Dudley felt the word slipping out without even intending to say it. "Gabrielle!" he called.

The kneeling woman straightened and turned, and Dudley's heart sank; it wasn't Gabrielle.

" _Non, pardon, monsieur_ , you are mistaken," the woman said.

"Sorry, sorry," Dudley said hurriedly, his face flushing. "I thought you were—"

"My sister, _oui_ ," the woman said, her voice weary and annoyed. She rounded on the scarred redhead beside her. "You see, now, Bill, yes? She is more beautiful than me! Everyone they want only to see Gabrielle, they do not want to look at me. I am 'ideous, Bill, ugly! _Non alors_ , do not speak more to me about more children, _d'accord_?"

Bill smiled gently and wrapped his arm around the semi-hysterical Frenchwoman's waist. He planted a kiss on her cheek and said, "Fleur, my love, my brave, smart, _beautiful_ love, you are not ugly. You are radiant; I don't think I've seen you more beautiful since our wedding day. If anyone confuses you with Gabrielle, it's just a testament to her increasing beauty—she's starting to look like _you_."

Fleur appeared mollified, and she turned back to Dudley. "And 'ow do _you_ know Gabrielle?" she demanded.

"I'm just—we met and—look, sorry, I didn't mean to offend you—"

"All right, mate, breathe," Bill said, laughing a little. "Gabrielle's just gone into the house to touch up her hair, I think. She'll be back out soon. Should I tell her you're looking for her, if I see her?"

"Uh, no, thanks," Dudley managed to say while his head spun. "Sorry to bother you."

"Not at all. You're Dursley, right?" Bill asked. "Harry's cousin?"

"Yeah." Dudley thought Fleur's eyes narrowed somewhat at hearing this, but his mind was distracted enough that he wasn't entirely sure.

"Bill Weasley, brother of the bride," Bill said, sticking out his hand. "Gabrielle's my sister-in-law."

 _Mon beau-frère has a sister who is getting married, and I am going_. The words ran through Dudley's head as he shook Bill's hand. He knew the wedding she was going to was the same day. Why hadn't he asked for names? _She is getting married to the person I first like_. Dudley felt slightly sick, thinking that Gabrielle's first crush had been his skinny, spectacled cousin.

Somehow, without quite being mentally present, Dudley parted from Bill and Fleur and wandered away, lost in his own thoughts. When he found himself standing in front of the back door to the crooked house, he was surprised, although not very much so. He barely hesitated before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The kitchen just inside the door was haphazardly tidy, one of those overstuffed rooms that seems chaotic but with some ill-defined system behind the madness. It wasn't a large space, but nothing in the house was. It took Dudley a moment's cursory glance to discern that there was no one else in the room, so he moved through the only other doorway into the living area.

Comfy, worn couches were spread around a fireplace, beside which stood an old-fashioned radio, as worn as everything else in the strange house. At the other end of the room was a staircase leading up into the rest of the house. Seeing that the room was empty, Dudley considered going up the stairs, since there didn't seem to be anywhere else to look for Gabrielle, but that seemed a step too far for him, for whatever reason.

As he mentally debated his next move, Dudley's eyes lit on a clock standing beside the doorway in which he stood. It didn't draw his attention simply for being a clock but because it had far too many hands. Curious, Dudley looked closer, and saw that, rather than numbers, the clock face's circumference was marked with words, such as "Home," "Work," and "Travelling." Currently, all of the hands were pointed at "Home." The hand on top was labeled "Arthur," and beneath it were another seven hands. Below the clock face was another, slightly smaller face that looked newer, unscratched and shinier; this face had the same labels as the face above it but with only four hands, the top one labeled "Fleur." As Dudley watched, the hand beneath Fleur's—"Victoire"—swept out to point at "Sleeping." Dudley was enthralled, but a creak on the staircase made him whip around.

He saw Gabrielle before she saw him. She was laughing, her face turned back the way she had come, talking to someone still upstairs in rapid French. Her beauty staggered Dudley again. He wanted to call out to her, but he realized he didn't know what to say, didn't know if the words would come out of his gaping mouth.

Time seemed to slow as Gabrielle's head lowered, turned, her gaze lighting on Dudley; his heart was beating frantically, so fast that he felt lightheaded. He watched her face change: laughter to puzzlement to surprise to puzzlement again, finally breaking out into a dazzling smile.

"Monsieur Dudley! _Que fais-tu ici_?" she cried out.

Time reset itself, and Dudley's tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. "This is my cousin's wedding," he said slowly.

" _C'est impossible!_ You are a Weasley cousin?"

Dudley shook his head, his thoughts sluggish. "Potter."

"Harry Potter is your cousin? _Non, non_ , _comment est-ce possible?_ You did not tell me `that you are a wizard!"

"I'm not," Dudley said, and he was angry, suddenly, that his voice was hoarse.

"Not? But you are the cousin of Harry Potter!"

Dudley didn't know what to respond to this, had no idea why his being related to the scrawny, outcast cousin he'd grown up bullying should make any difference. Instead, he blurted out an idea that had been growing and developing in his mind since his first glimpse of silvery-blonde hair in the tent: "You're a witch."

"But of course, _oui_! _Pardon_ that I did not tell you, but I did not know that you know of magic. _Bien sûr_ , I am happy that you know now," Gabrielle gushed.

A small voice in Dudley's head whispered, _It's okay, everything's fine now. You know she's a witch, but it doesn't matter._ Seeing that achingly beautiful form before him, Dudley wanted to listen to the voice, but it was silenced by a wave of memories: a lumpy couch in a cold, mouldy hut on a rock in the sea; the pain and the shame of a pink tail curling out of his trousers; his aunt floating like a giant balloon or a blimp on the ceiling, while his father's leg bled from the bites of a vicious, scared dog; and, stronger than anything else, the clammy cold that stole over his skin, bringing with it an intense fear, a sense of impending doom, and the sound of a long, rattling breath…

He didn't remember turning and walking out of the house or returning to the rowdy celebrations in the tent. He didn't remember sitting next to his mother and removing his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, and grabbing a half empty glass that sat on their table. His senses were recalled only by the way the amber liquid in the glass burned more like fire than whiskey as it coated his mouth and tongue and slid down his throat.

Recalled to his senses, his eyes streaming as he coughed, Dudley groaned and put his elbows on the table, his head in his hands.

"Diddykins? Dudley? Diddy, what's the matter, tell me, what's wrong?" Petunia sounded frantic.

"It's nothing, mum," Dudley mumbled, swatting her hands away as they patted ineffectually at his arm.

"You can tell me—"

"These people, mum. I dunno, I think you were right all these years. They're freaks," Dudley said bitterly. As he spoke, the music in the tent swelled louder than the yammering voices of the guests, spilling out a slow, sweet melody.

Petunia was quiet for a moment. Then, "Do you want to leave? We could go." The offer sounded flat, a lie that a mother would tell her son to ease his pain.

Dudley suspected that they couldn't leave without Longbottom's help, and he had no idea if that _wizard_ —the word sounded bitter even in the confines of Dudley's head—would be willing to help them so early on in the celebrations. He assumed that was the cause of the lie in his mother's voice, but as the strains of the music soaked into his ears, he looked up, and he saw his mother's expression, her face turned towards the dance floor. Her face was creased in lines of something that Dudley couldn't quite name, something that resided between grief and regret, longing and hopelessness, resignation and resoluteness.

Dudley followed her gaze to the dance floor; the newlyweds had just taken the floor for the first dance. Potter and his new wife were positively radiant, exuding their happiness into the air around them as they stepped to an approximation of the music's beat. Neither of them appeared particularly adept at dancing; neither of them seemed to mind.

It took Dudley a minute, but he eventually realized what that look on his mother's face meant, if not what it truly was. Other couples were starting to drift onto the dance floor, first the dumpy redheaded mother-of-the-bride and her balding husband, then Ron, the best man, and the brown-haired bridesmaid whose name Dudley had forgotten. Dudley stood and held his hand out, palm up, to his mother. "Well, Mrs. Dursley," he said, forcing a smile onto his unwilling face, "would you care to dance?"

As with everything else in this strange new landscape that they were traversing, Petunia hesitated before allowing her son to tow her out onto the rapidly filling dance floor. Perhaps it was fear that held her back—of the unknown, of the past—or perhaps it was that same nagging feeling of not belonging that was eating at Dudley. Whatever it was, the steady rhythm of the music and the dance eased her concerns, if the lines on her face were any means of judging.

While his mother's discomforts faded, Dudley's grew. He had hoped that the dance would distract him from the clamor inside his head, but the repetition of the simple steps left little for him to focus on outside of his own wildly spinning contemplations.

"Dudley, are you _quite_ sure that you're all right?" Petunia asked again, worry creeping into her words.

Dudley opened his mouth to assure his mother that all was well, but the silver hair of Gabrielle's sister whipped past him as she danced nearby in her husband's embrace, and a strangled noise escaped his throat before he could catch it.

"I've made a bloody huge mistake, mum," Dudley blurted out.

Petunia's fingers tightened on Dudley's hand and shoulder. "What is it, Diddykins? We can fix it, whatever it is, we can fix it. Is it your job? One of your awards? Money, Dudley, is it money?"

"No, no, mum, no it's…" Dudley trailed off, shaking his head. "It's a girl," he choked out. Petunia gasped.

"Dudley! Have you gotten a girl pregnant? Oh, _Dudley_ —"

"Mum! I'm not in school anymore, for crumb's sake. If I get a girl pregnant, I've got the means to take care of her without telling my mother that I've cocked it all up!" Dudley's irritation was momentarily stronger than any other emotion, but it was quickly brushed away by the tsunami of _how_ s and _why_ s and _what now_ s hurtling through his brain. He struggled to put words to his inner turmoil, tried to choke out the words to tell his Very English Mother about what was troubling him.

"I—I've never heard this song before," Petunia stammered into the emptiness that Dudley had left. "It has a lovely…tempo."

"Yeah, definitely," Dudley said without thinking. He knew little about music, could never differentiate tempo from melody. With the state his mind was in, he didn't know tempo from shrimp scampi. He wanted to say _something_ , some words that seemed ready to fall off his lips without his brain quite knowing that they were there, but instead of falling out they fell back, snapping elastically towards the back of his throat where he swallowed them down as they tried to choke him. Another long pause followed.

"Rather a lot of _color_ , here, don't you think?" Petunia queried in a worthy attempt at restarting the conversation.

"I suppose," Dudley said noncommittally, seeing only silver.

"I've never been to a wedding with such a variety of bright colors. That man, there, with the yellow outfit, he rather calls attention to himself, I think," Petunia sniffed, her disapproval evident.

Dudley glanced up, noticed the cross-eyed, straggly white-haired man in the canary yellow robes, and glanced back at his mother. " _Mum_ ," he said, exasperated. "That bloke would call attention to himself if he were wearing a black suit and tie at a funeral. He's a right old case of crazy, just look at him."

"Then I don't see what he's doing at a formal function like this."

"There's no accounting for the guest list." Dudley heard the bitterness in his voice and hoped his mother did not.

She did. Petunia's brow furrowed. "Is there someone here you _know_?" she demanded.

Dudley flushed. "I—yeah, I mean, sort of—I…yeah, I guess," he admitted, shrugging to make it seem less consequential.

"From where?"

"I—it was…" Dudley could feel his face glowing red, radiating the heat of his discomfiture, but he couldn't think of a lie, so the truth—or a part of it, anyway—tumbled out. "I had a one-night stand with a girl, and I saw her here. It's weird, that's all."

"Has she seen you?"

"Well, yeah, we, er, spoke. Not much, just a few words."

"And you're sure she's not pregnant?"

"Mum!"

"I don't want anyone trying to take advantage of you just because you're handsome and famous, Diddykins," Petunia said sharply. "People aren't to be trusted where money's concerned, you know."

"She hasn't asked for any money, Mum."

" _Yet_ ," Petunia corrected.

A wave of anger roiled through Dudley's stomach, and he exhaled a deep, suffering sigh. "Never mind, Mum. Let's drop it, okay? Let's just…let's just talk about something else."

"But think about it, Diddykins, you have a lot of money and regular people know it because you're famous. Be careful about money."

Dudley's nostrils flared, and the wave of anger started to seep out over his tongue. "Enough, mum, drop it. It's ridiculous, what would she need money for anyway? We don't have any idea what these people are like, they probably don't need money, why would they, they could just, you know, abra cadabra, jiggery pokery, alakazam anything they need, couldn't they? Who could possibly need money when they've got _magic_?" Dudley all but spat the words out.

" _Mais_ _,_ _non_ _,_ Dudley," that sweet French voice answered from behind Dudley's shoulder. Dudley broke away from his mother's suddenly slack grip and whirled around to face Gabrielle. "But of course we have the money. Magic cannot do everything. And when everyone else is also using the _magique_ , then, _alors_ , _certainement_ there are things we must buy."

Dudley stood frozen on the spot, speechless. It was bad enough she was here, bad enough that he was angry and _still_ wanted to ask questions about money, but that she was here and talking about magic _stuff_ in front of his mother utterly destroyed him.

What would Petunia say? How could she possibly react to this? She'd been horrified enough that Dudley had a one-night stand; it was not, to Dudley, outside the realm of possibility that Petunia might have a proper heart attack at the thought of Dudley sleeping with _one of them_. It had certainly been a shock to Dudley. To Petunia? He could barely entertain the thought.

But here she was, Gabrielle in all her marvelous, breathtaking, wonderful beauty, a mildly supercilious smile playing about her lips as she corrected Dudley about witches and money. And here was Petunia, in all her tidy, anti-magic, no-nonsense properness, and as Dudley's eyes flicked back and forth between the two women in that dreadfully lengthy second, it seemed to him that two worlds were colliding. It was some variety of excruciating anguish, like watching as a Bentley and a Rolls accelerate towards one another down an alley with no escape route; the observer could marvel at the beauty, power, value, and craftsmanship while still mourning an inevitably tragic outcome.

" _Pardon_ , Dudley does not seem to want to introduce me, _Madame_ , but this seems to me most silly. _Vous êtes sa maman, non_?" Gabrielle's smile lost all its condescension and returned to its usual dazzling state as she raised her eyes to Petunia.

Petunia stared at Gabrielle, and Dudley felt himself reaching without any conscious thought to catch her as she fainted.

But Petunia didn't faint. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, " _Oui, je suis_ Petunia Dursley. _Et comment t'appelles tu_?"

"You speak French?" Dudley blurted out.

"I studied it in school," Petunia responded, not moving her eyes from Gabrielle's face. Her words wavered slightly. "But I've not had much opportunity to use it since then. Your father isn't fond of…of French."

Dudley leveled an accusing glare at his mother. "I thought _you_ weren't fond of—" his gaze slid to Gabrielle and back to Petunia— " _French_."

Petunia finally looked back at Dudley. There was a long pause as her expression changed slowly from shock to cold emptiness. "I'm not," she said, and Dudley hadn't heard her speak so icily since Potter had lived with them. "Why don't you two dance. I think I'd like to sit down for a bit," Petunia snapped. Before Dudley could say anything, she had made her way off the dance floor.

Dudley made to follow, but Gabrielle slid into his arms, and before he knew what was happening they were gliding across the dance floor. Dudley's head whirled; when he glanced down and saw her achingly beautiful smile, the world spun away from him and he had to let go and move and—

"Stop it!" he yelled. Their dance had carried them to the far edge of the dance floor, and as he'd pulled away from her embrace he had stumbled out of the tent. The noise was miraculously muffled—no, no, not miraculous, he had to remind himself, _magically_ muffled—so he could hear the way his shout had boomed out over the grassy field. He staggered back a few more feet, pressing his palm to his forehead, as if that simple action could slow the tornado within his head. He groaned. "Stop it, stop, whatever…whatever _magic_ —" and this time he spat the word— "you're using, just stop!"

Gabrielle stood just outside the tent. Dudley couldn't look at her face to read her expression, but he could hear the confusion in her voice. "I am not using any magic, Dudley."

"Yes, you are! You are!" Dudley bellowed. "You are, I know, because when I look at you I can't—I can't think! I can't think!" Dudley removed his ineffectual palm from his forehead to jab his index finger at Gabrielle. "You're confusing me, you're magicking me, stop it!"

"I am not!"

"You are! Witch! Get away from me!" The words tore out of Dudley's lips and slammed into Gabrielle with a force that he could see; she flinched violently.

The moment the words were out in the air, the storm of emotions in Dudley's head faded away, replaced by a dull throb and a hollow ache in his chest. "I'm sorry," he said automatically. "Sorry, please, I didn't mean—" But Gabrielle had already swept around the corner of the tent and out of view.

Dudley swore.


End file.
